Hey, Mr Wonderful
by Ryrahd
Summary: What do you get when you have an already hyperactive authoress on sugar high some DDR songs? Extreme silliness and skimpily clad Eriol.


Disclaimer: If there was even a small chance I could own CCS, I would be rich, and I'm not ;___________;

A/N: Warning, extreme silliness and OOC-ness on Tomoyo's part. This came to me unbidden and with a very heavy baseball bat. Hehehe...

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Hey, Mr. Wonderful

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Anatomy (n): something everyone has, but which looks better on a girl (or guy, in this case^^)

- Bruce Raeburn

They say you are wonderful, though not in the usual sense but certainly enough for me, and I can't help but agree with those foolish enough to admit your wonderfulness-ness. You certainly are something, though I can't quite place a pin on how, maybe it has something with your wonderfulness-ness, or perhaps it's the sun and the lack of activity. Or maybe it is your state of dress, or undress, or lack of clothing, whatever you wish to call it. 

Ideas and images form in my head, they are different kind of images a normal, warm-blooded female would receive in my given situation, although I am miles behind the ordinary female and certainly had been called strange on a couple of occasions. Other notions are starting to whirr in my head, although this happens without my permission or knowledge. They are compromising, those damnable notions, with preferable lips in preferable places, but they are at the back of my mind and I barely notice them. 

Why do they call you wonderful? Oh, don't get me wrong you are, but why? The notions point to other places, ones which would make even the coldest women warm up to melting point, but you have to remember, I am no ordinary gal, so I disregard the notions with a gleeful laugh and a proverbial tap dance (which would have caused quite a bit of stares if these were any normal circumstances, but they're not). 

For the lack of anything better to do, though there is certainly a lot to do when you are me, I gaze at you. Hm, gaze. It's a strange thing, really, especially if you are me and have weird thoughts entering your mind (though I suppose it's not that unusual for the usual hentai junkie, but I've never considered myself one of those). Commanding oneself to not to stare, yet by doing so looking even closer than before, which could sometimes hurt the eyes, but not in my situation (there is, after all, nothing wrong with your appearance; it's wonderful, I've heard). It's good that you are asleep on that cheap plastic chair, otherwise you'd notice me, but you don't and that's another score for me! 

Other notions enter my mind, these more provoking than others but still cumbersome. The original notions entertain these, annoying me to no extent. I wonder whether all these ideas have a conspiracy against me, a club dubbed the "Frustrate The Poor Girl to Mental Institution Clique", where parties of all notions hold meetings, complete with porcelain tea sets and videos of my stupidest thoughts and actions (at which they often laugh until their non-existing bellies ache). That would be quite ludicrous, but it makes sense and I'm too lazy and intrigued in watching you to come up with a logical reason. 

I wonder what it would feel like if you held me, the way that sappy soap opera guy — Brady Black or Ethan Something-or-Other, can't remember which— holds the heroin What's-Her-Name. What would it feel like to have you kiss me, the oh! so deliciously pink tongue interlacing with mine? Heavenly, I bet, but what else would you expect from Mr. Wonderful? You stir and I ask the notions whether you are, too, entertaining those damnably frustrating thoughts, though in a different sense from mine. Or it could be that your wonderful rear end and the boxers that sheath it are melting under the heat of the sun, gluing you to the chair. Despite the pain that could cause you (ouch! ouch! ouch!), the notions are having yet another field day, and I have to use an imaginary rubber cork to shut them up. 

"Eriol-kun?" I ask, hoping that you are still sleeping and I could keep on watching you, though this is in no way conspired by the notions. You murmur incoherently and those notions are beginning to open nonexistent champagne bottles, the wildest of the these (the ones that I've been trying to get to shut up) are getting on the bar in that club in the far reaches of my mind and starting a conga line, which gets a rather strange reaction from the sane notions (though I suppose all notions that talk and drink the bubbly are quite insane). In fact, if I wasn't as excited about seeing you asleep as the annoying ideas are, I would be quite squicked (spelled correctly) out. 

"Hey, Mr. Wonderful?" I say, giggling as the phrase escapes from my lips, the partying notions raise their glasses (and those that don't have glasses raise champagne-filled imaginary shoes) and toast with hearty "Hooray!"s. "You would not believe what I'm thinking right now," I continue with laughter cracking in my voice. Drawing a deep breath, I say teasingly, "But why should I tell you? After all, you're asleep and will not hear what I have to say, and you'd think me insane to have these thoughts about _you_. Besides, aren't you Mr. Wonderful —" a snigger from those provocative notions again, "— and wonderful people are supposed to be able to read thoughts." 

You stir once more and I close my mouth hastily, trying to stifle giggles. Opening your azure eyes just a little bit, so they look like deep blue slits, you mumble, "What's going on? I thought I heard someone talking." The notions are cheering wildly now, screaming suggestions and some lewd comments (like "Give it to him, baby!" and "who's yer momma!") and I'm once again besieged by mirth. You look at me funnily, arching your brows and quirking your mouth just ever so slightly (a squeal escapes from the extra sensitive notions). Oh! what a wonderful mouth!

"Oh, I was just talking to myself aloud," I reply, unable to come up with a good excuse, though for a different reason than someone in my current condition might think. Shifting in your cheap plastic chair, your fine tuned pectorals doing an intricate dance, you mumble a sleepy "oh" and turn on your side, facing away from me, to return to the real of the Sleep. I glance at your boxer-clad rear end and smirk furtively, the notions whooping in joy. Yup, definitely wonderful, though the reason for the wonderfulness-ness is still debatable. 

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Somewhere out there, on a little planet that shall only be revealed as "Psyche", in a club hailed as "Notions 'R Us", two figures stood in a shadowy corner, watching as everyone else danced the night away. Both had flashy neon signs on their back and were sipping warm champagne out of strangely shaped glasses. The one with "Eriol's Wonderfulness-ness" emblazoned on his back turned to the other person, whose backside had a "Tomoyo's Playfulness" etched in green neon. Grinning wickedly, the first one asked, "Are you having a good time?"

The second, apparently a girl, looked at the huge TV screen on the opposite wall and smiled —if not outright leered— at the image displayed there (it was one very fine (and I mean F.I.N.E.) rear end). Looking at "Eriol's Wonderfulness-ness", she sipped on her champagne and answered, "Definitely a good time."


End file.
